


Foreign Waters

by shinychimera, Yeomanrand



Series: Torch Universe [2]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Abuse, Doppelganger, Insanity, Knifeplay, M/M, Mirror Universe, POV Male Character, POV Multiple, Rape, Rape Recovery, Scarification, Scars, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 07:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinychimera/pseuds/shinychimera, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeomanrand/pseuds/Yeomanrand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Kirk falls into the brutal Mirror Universe alone, while his psychotic counterpart comes to the <i>Enterprise</i>. Getting them home is the easy part...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Deepest gratitude to our betas [sangueuk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sangueuk) and [rubynye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rubynye)!
> 
> Warnings (It's the mirror!verse, expect nastiness):  
> Chapter 1: On-screen rape from the rapist's POV, including brawling/battering, use of a hypo and a knife.  
> Chapter 2: Assault; scars of previous abuse.  
> Chapter 3 &amp; 4: Emotional aftermath of preceding rape and assault.
> 
> Originally posted to the [](http://community.livejournal.com/issenterprise/profile)[**issenterprise**](http://community.livejournal.com/issenterprise/) community ([Chapter 1](http://community.livejournal.com/issenterprise/5486.html) • [Chapter 2](http://community.livejournal.com/issenterprise/7090.html) • [Chapter 3](http://community.livejournal.com/issenterprise/13913.html) • [Chapter 4](http://community.livejournal.com/issenterprise/104797.html))

  
_Filthy water cannot be washed. - West African Proverb_   


McCoy watches the pretender sitting in the captain's chair through lightly narrowed eyes, one hand balled into the other behind his back. He's tempted by the familiar weight of the dagger hanging at his hip and the vulnerable angle of the false Kirk's neck; easy enough to step forward from his position behind and to the man's right and slide his dagger between the third and fourth cervical vertebrae and not have to worry about what will happen to the crew. Spock might be conniving and ruthless, but better to have a known quantity in the chair than the rank amateur posturing before him.

His heart rate's rising, the blood flushing through his veins. The naïve idiot's _negotiating_, for god's sake, when he should be closing the connection and sending a team down to eradicate the peace-loving natives. Foolishness.

Further proof that the transporter is not to be trusted.

McCoy knows he's not the only one on the bridge seeing the calculating look in Spock's eyes. For a moment, he regrets his own weakness, that he has no interest in command. Then again, he has control of the captain -- the real captain -- so he's never needed to be interested.

The Kirk disobeys Empire orders, hands the conn over to Spock, and leaves the bridge. The half-Vulcan raises an eyebrow at McCoy, who raises one back. So Spock, too, recognizes that this Kirk is not _their_ Kirk, and apparently expects - or is oddly willing - to let McCoy investigate the differences -- presumably while Spock finds out how to get their own captain back.

He gives Spock an ironic half-bow, acknowledging the chess game they've begun, and turns smartly on his heel to leave the bridge. Whatever the hot-blooded Vulcan is planning, McCoy has curiosities and desires of his own. Whoever's wearing Kirk's body, this strange _Jim_, McCoy's willing to bet he hasn't half the captain's ... experience.

He steps off the lift, a calculating look to rival Spock's in his eyes, his lips curled in a cool smile. His amusement deepens along with the fire in his belly as he wonders if Jim even knows where his quarters are. He rounds a corner and takes two steps backward, out of sight again, his question answered. Jim's standing in the corridor, one hand hesitating above the touchpad that will unlock his door.

Kiss him or kill him, the next few moments were going to be interesting.

He waits until Jim's hand slides down to the lock, then takes long strides that close the distance between them before the door is fully open. McCoy twists Jim's wrist up behind his back and propels him through the door and halfway to the wall before Jim can form a coherent thought. He's not supposed to know what he's doing in hand-to-hand, of course, the Empire feels that doctors with combat training are a little too dangerous, but his whole life hasn't been spent in the service. He knows a few things.

Kirk's taught him a few more.

He pushes Jim face-first against the wall, pulling his weapon. He sets the sharp blade just at the top of Jim's throat, the curl of the steel matching the curve of Jim's neck as though it had been made to suit. Jim fights to catch his breath. McCoy makes sure there's no space between them, no opportunity for the pretender to push back or kick out, before he speaks.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Captain James T. Kirk," he bluffs, trying to set his jaw in a hard line without cutting himself against the threatening blade. He obviously understands that he's not supposed to show weakness here, but the confidence shown on the bridge seems shaken, his voice less certain beneath the hard words shaping that familiar name. Delightful.

"You certainly wear his skin like you're used to it," McCoy says, changing the angle of his blade to force Jim's chin up. "But I've been intimate with James Tiberius Kirk for years. I _know_ him."

The captain is very still now, barely breathing. The doctor lets his voice drop as he continues, until he whispers right in Jim's ear, "Now is a very bad time to lie to me."

Jim can't help himself. He swallows hard, and a drop of blood begins to trickle down his Adam's apple.

"Careful," McCoy says, pressing against Jim's hip, voice soft. "I may yet kill you, but let's not rush." He twists Jim's captive arm further up between their bodies -- not enough to cause damage, yet, but enough to make Jim squirm pleasurably beneath him.

"_Fine_. You know I'm not the ... the Kirk you're used to. Help me get back where I belong, and you'll get him back."

McCoy slowly releases the arm, each of them cautiously balancing their tension against the other. Jim gains enough room to turn between McCoy and the wall. His knife is never more than millimeters away from Jim's body, and McCoy's free hand is ready to take the sheathed dagger as Jim's hip comes around. He casually tosses the weapon across the room.

"That doesn't answer my question, _Jim_," he says, shifting the point of his knife to the pulse fluttering under the corner of the captain's jaw. He reaches up and brushes away the thin line of blood on Jim's neck, using his thumb to transfer the precious liquid to his own lips, watching the expression on Jim's face shift as he licks it away.

The blue eyes are blank and strange, fixated on McCoy's mouth, yet wary, very wary. McCoy can almost taste the adrenaline explosion waiting to happen, along with the blood on his tongue.

Steely eyes flick back to meet his own. "I am not the James Kirk you know. But I _am_ James T. Kirk, and I _am_ Captain of the _Enterprise_, and you _will_ let me go."

One eyebrow raises at the challenge. "Or...?"

Jim takes the bait, grabs for the knife-hand, twisting his other hand tight in the doctor's shirt. McCoy uses their momentum to pivot so when they go down Jim lands hard on his back, but the impact on McCoy's wrist is painful and the knife is jolted out of his grip. Faster than thought, Jim has a knee up to force a roll and they scramble up again. McCoy laughs; he can feel the blood thundering through both their bodies as they grapple. He blocks a swing and catches the shoulder of Jim's sleeveless golden command shirt just as the captain shoves him back. The fabric tears, baring shoulder and chest, and they break apart.

McCoy shifts to a crouch. The knives rest in the corner of the room, out of Jim's line of sight. The man's chest is heaving. The virgin skin there, shockingly unscarred, distracts McCoy for a moment, so he's not ready when Jim lunges for him. Their bodies crash together; Jim's hands take McCoy's shoulders. McCoy twists away but he's not quite in control when they hit Jim's shelves. Alien artifacts fall around them; Jim's hand is jostled free, but he recovers quickly and catches McCoy with a stinging punch to the mouth.

He licks his own blood away, a feral grin spreading across his face. This Jim is wild, undisciplined, gambling all in sudden rushes and big, powerful blows, leaving himself vulnerable where it counts. McCoy's ready for his next swing and he stops the attacking arm, pushing forward and knocking Jim off balance, back down onto his back on the floor. Jim's left hand grips the collar of his blue uniform so they both go down but McCoy's still in control as he drops alongside the other man, holding the rigid right arm at bay.

McCoy rolls in the other direction so he can grab the hand at his collar. Vulcan or not, he knows exactly where to squeeze Jim's wrist to force him to let go. The fact that it hurts is a bonus.

Now both Jim's hands are captive, and he bucks beneath McCoy's firm grip. The doctor gets most of his weight across Jim's thighs, effectively immobilizing them, constraining the battle to their upper bodies. A little more pressure on the legs and Jim gasps in pain; McCoy pulls both hands over his head. He waits. They pant, sternum to sternum, and his cock is pressing down hard, and something in Jim's eyes quails as he realizes it.

It's what he's been watching for. Suddenly it's easy to hold Jim's crossed wrists in one hand, to wrap the other in the gold command sash and tear it from around the captain's waist, to tie the wrists to each other and to the leg of the desk bolted to the floor. McCoy straddles Jim's groin, one hand at his throat; threatening, but not quite cutting off air or circulation. Without the sash, the torn remains of the wrap-around shirt have fallen to the sides, baring his smooth torso. He strokes a hand teasingly along Jim's side, then slides his fingers beneath Jim's waistband, seeking a particular hard knot of keloid he knows he should find above the ridge of the iliac crest. The skin there is just as unmarked as Jim's chest, and McCoy's grip eases slightly. He savors the rigidity in Jim's body beneath him, the fact that all the fight hasn't gone out of him -- yet.

" 'Fascinating,' " he quotes, still holding Jim's gaze. "You're really not him."

"I told you I wasn't." The pulse beats fast in the warm throat under his hand.

"You weren't acting like him, but this body.... I've mended it so many times -- sometimes after the games we play ...." The look in Jim's eyes, pupils hugely dilated, makes McCoy giddy. Jim -- this Jim -- has absolutely no idea what McCoy is capable of. McCoy can't resist drawing fingers up along Jim's side, across his chest, making him quiver.

"I don't belong here," Jim says, no longer ordering -- he's almost pleading. "We can _fix_ this, if we work together."

McCoy's fingers circle his nipple. "Maybe I don't want to fix it." He raises his eyebrow, nails biting in to the sensitive flesh.

He can feel tension building in Jim's body again. He tightens his other hand on the carotid arteries, knees gripping Jim's sides. He's never seen Jim panic before. The sight is irresistible. He decides to twist the metaphoric knife a bit deeper.

He releases Jim's nipple, sets his hand above Jim's shoulder and leans in so close that their noses brush, unable to resist a quick nip at Jim's chin on the way.

"What do I do with you? Hand you over to Chekov? He's been bucking to beat your record as youngest captain in the Empire. Might make it, too, although he has several senior staff including you to go through first. You die, and they all go up in rank."

Jim swallows beneath his gripping hand. McCoy's cock twitches in response.

"Or let Spock take credit for killing you. He may not want to be captain any more than I do, but the rest of the crew would think twice before challenging him. We'd all be safer with him in charge."

He tightens the hand on Jim's throat just a little, and strokes his other down Jim's side and over his hip to possessively cup his ass. The captain's body jerks violently in revulsion, and he struggles against the knots holding him. McCoy watches and laughs, his straddling thighs easily controlling any leverage Jim might gain. But the position is awkward and the floor is hard and it's time to up the game a little. Jim spits out a very uncaptainly phrase when the hypo appears, but there's no resisting its charms and he's soon gone.

Jim's one heavy SOB, worse when he's unconscious, but this isn't the first time McCoy's slung his unfeeling body into the bed. Dead weight's a hell of a lot easier to handle than a fighting Jim, after all. Not that he won't struggle when he comes to, and McCoy expects there'll be more swearing as well. The thought amuses him; he strips off the rest of Jim's clothing, studying the differences between the two men's bodies. They're almost more visible to him than the similarities, and he strokes his hand along Jim's side again, along the crease of his hip. Finds that sensitive spot on Jim's inner thigh, pinches and twists, and even sedated Jim's body jerks and a faint whine escapes him. But his cock also stirs.

McCoy knows that Jim will wake soon enough; he's often thought Jim's body fights nearly everything that's put into it. So he makes short work of binding Jim to the bed face up; the bonds not only around wrists and ankles but criss-crossing down Jim's arms and a fair way up his calves. It's a pretty effect, the dark ropes against the fair skin, and he sits back to admire his handiwork. He imagines any Kirk, from any universe, would be one slippery bastard, and he doesn't believe in taking chances when he doesn't have to.

And then he walks over to the corner of the room and picks up both their knives. Jim's he sets on the counter on the other side of the divider that delineates bedroom from office; his own he re-sheathes, for now. He does, briefly, consider gagging Jim, but decides he'd rather listen to Jim's bitching. Instead, he resumes his position straddling Jim, and traces his fingers down along Jim's throat, his chest, paying particular attention to those places he can see the memory of strange scars on Jim's skin, as well as other, more sensitive areas.

By the time Jim enters the twilight phase of his sleep, his body is already awake: his prick hard, his scrotum tight, his nipples taut. His head turns on the pillow, his breath beginning to catch. McCoy applies the lube, cool and sticky, to Jim's hole, rubbing it around a bit before sliding one finger inside. He's tight, tighter than McCoy had anticipated and he gets that much harder at the realization that no one's ever taken _this_ Jim's ass before. He works the finger in and out, amused both that it's not enough to break the last hold of the sedative and that Jim's dick hasn't flagged. When he adds more lube and works the second finger in, though, Jim's eyes snap open and he stiffens all at once.

McCoy doesn't stop scissoring and twisting, and he doesn't speak, just watches those vitally blue eyes while the muscles cord and strain in Jim's arms, and the spread thighs beneath McCoy, fighting the criss-crossed bonds with everything he has. It's only when Jim looks in his face and goes limp again that McCoy works in another finger, considering the vulnerable throat in front of him. Jim's ragged breathing could be fear or ecstasy and is undoubtedly some combination of both. Waking did soften Jim's dick just a bit, and McCoy slides his fingers out of Jim's ass to wrap them around the flagging erection, pulling and stroking in the way that never fails to rouse the body he knows.

Satisfied, he leans forward again, pressing his fully-clothed body along Jim's naked one and draws just the tip of his tongue along Jim's cheekbone, stopping to caress and bite at the mole just behind Jim's jaw before drawing Jim's earlobe into his mouth and sucking at it.

He sits up to look Jim in the eye, tracing the backs of his fingers along Jim's inner thigh, a cruel smile on his lips. He pushes just the tip of one finger back inside Jim, smile broadening ever so slightly when Jim pushes back. His body thrums with predatory desire; Jim's eyes burn with rage.

"I'm going to take what I want, and then we'll see about getting you home again," he says, voice all velvety croon over titanium. "It's up to you how many pieces you're in when you get there."

Jim growls, teeth bared, cheek twitching. "You _will_ regret this."

_How perfect._ So angry, so innocent, so unbroken. "No, Jim, I really won't," he says, standing languidly and stripping off his shirt. The theatrical gesture is worth it for the sudden slack-jawed shock on Jim's face when he gets an eyeful of McCoy's scarred torso. "I'm your only ally, and I don't _have_ to help you when I'm done." He finishes undressing, tossing his clothes carelessly aside, watching Jim watch him. Knowing Jim wants to turn away, practically feeling the misery in Jim's eyes as they try to avoid looking at the rigid cock McCoy's slicking up. But Jim's gaze catches on one scar after another. The bite scars high on McCoy's hip seem particularly fascinating. The mark left by an incompetent chastener during his sole disciplinary whipping, a dark line burned over his shoulder, is another favorite.

He pulls his knife from its sheath and settles back on the bed between Jim's knees, watching the man's skin crawl with gooseflesh, turning to full on flinches when he runs the flat of the blade down Jim's inner thigh. But McCoy's tired of batting this mouse around, and he slashes back with a quick, calculated motion, freeing only one of Jim's legs. He grips the knife tightly and Jim plays into his plans, again, bringing his leg up fast in one last futile bid for freedom.

In one violent motion, McCoy catches the thigh over his arm and shoves the leg back towards Jim's chest, spreading and exposing him for the stabbing thrust of his cock, pressing in unrelentingly until he's buried to the hilt. Jim cries out and groans beneath him, eyes squeezed shut and head turned away.

"Good _God_, you're tight," he growls, shifting Jim so he has a better angle to pull out, slam back in again. He transfers the knife to the other hand and rests the edge of the blade right on Jim's belly. "No wonder you think you have the upper hand, if the McCoy you know is too pathetic to get his piece of you."

"Fuck you," Jim grinds out; McCoy sneers at him, changing rhythms from fast and hard to a long slow in-and-out he knows he can maintain as long as he likes. An hour, once, and a couple of bottles of lube, Kirk moaning and coming multiple times beneath him, raw and begging McCoy toward the end.

"Nobody fucks me, Jim," he says, shaking off the memory. He doesn't think he'll have that kind of time with this Jim, unfortunately. The next thrust finds Jim's prostate, has his dick bobbing; his fists clench and the tendons in his neck are so tense that McCoy has to bend over him and nip his way down them. Still rocking, knife between their bodies, he sucks hard against Jim's collarbone before pinching first one nipple, then the other. A groan escapes him at the way Jim involuntarily tightens around him, and he continues to ride him, savoring every tight, resisting inch, in deep and then out again slow.

The bent leg continues to twitch from time to time, trying to thrash free, but McCoy knows how hard Jim can kick, and how to prevent it. He suspects it's not the tight hold, though, or the threat of the knife, that makes the struggles fade. This Jim hates his _voice_, the way he chuckles and murmurs and encourages Jim to keep enjoying it.

But that won't do; half the fun is the fight, and withdrawing is no escape. He slides all the way in and holds there, shifting his weight so he can draw the tip of the blade along the lower edge of Jim's left-hand fourth rib, slicing deeply through the dermis. Red blood wells up fast and bright. The noise Jim makes is pure agony. McCoy's cock throbs, and he breathes out in a pleased hiss.

"When I gave him this," he says, finishing the measured cut with a curl down toward the fifth rib, "I was making a point about betrayal."

Jim whimpers; McCoy traces along the cut with the flat of the blade, smearing the blood before setting the knife back on Jim's stomach and resuming his measured pace.

"For you, it's a souvenir. Can't have you forgetting me, after all."

The whimpers come and go, after that, but now Jim continues to struggle and strain and keep his head turned fiercely away as McCoy's hands and knife and cock finish claiming him. Crimson blood spills down his chest, clots, cracks, oozes again. McCoy picks up the pace at last, grips Jim's cock, and uses everything he knows about James T. Kirk to pull the orgasm out of him -- and then tears spill down his cheeks too.

"God, Jim. Beautiful. _Perfect_."

_"Doctor?"_

Jim just about jumps out of his skin at Spock's calm voice over the commlink, and even McCoy flinches a little.

"Not -- quite ready -- for you," he manages to grind out, and he knows Spock will listen and wait. McCoy grunts loudly for his benefit, slamming hard into Jim's shuddering body, intensely fascinated with the tears pooling and spilling from under the thick eyelashes. No pain or humiliation has ever done this to Kirk before, and the intoxicating rush builds into a roaring, overpowering orgasm. He collapses onto Jim's bloody chest with a hoarse cry.

He lays there for a moment, watching Jim's crumpled face before laughing breathlessly and backing safely off the bed.

"So was it the ion storm?" he says to the commlink, regathering his control.

_"Affirmative. Mr. Scott believes he has determined the correct transporter calibrations to replicate the error."_

"You trusted Scott with this?" McCoy's surprised, and a little worried. "Spock, the man's more than half insane."

_"Indeed, Doctor, but he is the most knowledgeable person on board with regard to beaming technology. Also, he requires the Captain's protection, so he is well aware of the consequences should he ... err."_

"Admiral Archer does still want his head on a pike," McCoy agrees, thoughtfully. He wipes his dick off with the coarse shreds of the command shirt and begins dressing. "How long?"

_"I estimate it will take Mr. Scott another twenty Standard minutes to complete his adjustments. Do you require assistance?"_

McCoy looks at Jim, considering. "No, I can manage. Kirk keeps the dermal regenerator charged."

He knows Spock is not-sighing, one eyebrow probably raised. _"Doctor, you simply must learn to be more careful with your toys."_

"We'll be down in twenty. McCoy out." He closes the connection. He's detaching the portable regenerator from its charging station when Jim speaks from the bed.

"I thought you said he wanted to kill me."

"Did I?" McCoy answers, absently, carefully modifying the settings of the instrument in his hands. "I thought I said I'd let him take credit for killing you, if I did it myself. But no one's going to die today, unless you do something very, very stupid."

McCoy sits on the edge of the bed, away from Jim's free foot. Jim apparently agrees that squirming under an active regenerator would be one of those very stupid somethings, though on this minimal setting it has to burn more than he's used to. Takes a long time, too, building a thick, beautiful scar when his body would rather heal neatly, but McCoy takes pride in his work.

When it's done, he trades the healing instrument for the knife. McCoy takes a few moments to stand back and admire the new mark, livid pink against Jim's pale ribcage, the clear message that he could have carved the man's heart out if he'd been in the mood. Jim's bleak eyes are on him, all his fight dimmed to a pale spark.

"I cut you free, you walk quiet to the transporter room, you get to go home. _Anything_ else, you stay, and Spock and I teach you how to be our good little pet captain. Understood?"

Jim nods, miserably, mingled hate and fear and hope and loathing flitting through his eyes. The weight of this universe -- the fact that he's alone, with no point to fighting and nowhere to run -- is crushing him, and McCoy can only hope his Kirk is faring somewhat better in that other place. He reassures himself that Kirk will be fine, in what's obviously a much softer universe, so long as he keeps his bright madness in check.

This Jim sits up, slowly, when McCoy cuts him free. He's allowed a moment or two to rub circulation back into his limbs before McCoy tosses him his pants and a clean shirt. He stiffly dresses himself, and he makes no attempt to fight when he limps down the corridor Spock has been kind enough to clear for them, McCoy at his side.

It's not until Jim's actually standing on the transporter platform, and Spock has said "_Energize_," that the smoldering rage twists Jim's face. He disappears into the ether between the worlds, and McCoy idly wonders what the other him will do. If he'll see Jim's ripe for the taking now. Probably not.

The crazy, battlescarred Kirk who materializes from the ether is just as angry, but some of the tension bleeds away instantly when he sees McCoy and Spock exchange amused eyebrows, enough that he almost gives them a rare, honest smile. McCoy sighs in relief -- because it would be a shame to lose Scott, for one thing, the man's a genius.

"Welcome back, Captain."


	2. Chapter 2

  
_Thou art all ice. Thy kindness freezes. -Wm. Shakespeare, Richard III_   


 

Kirk speaks before the transporter finishes reconstituting the away team. "They're so eager to turn us down, they can have their day. Have Sulu take care of the problem."

He steps off the platform, off to the Bridge with visions of evaporating flesh dancing in his head, and is stopped in mid-step by Spock's coolly puzzled voice. "Captain?"

"It's not a difficult order, Mister...Spock," he says, turning to face his First Officer and faltering. Spock is different. The uniform's different and the facial hair is gone and it's not-quite-a-frown instead of not-quite-obedience, but it's more than that. Spock is _wrong_. And wrong is dangerous. Spock is up to something and _Spock_ is dangerous.

Kirk covers, quickly, glancing at the landing party, instantly tallying up dozens of differences between these people and those he remembers beaming up with -- for one thing, they're wandering past him without a glance now that he's stopped, talking to each other and dispersing to their stations, not waiting to be dismissed.

"Report." Stalling for time. The transporter room itself is brighter, somehow. This is a trap, an elaborate trap, and his mind riffles through scenarios, looking for what plot makes sense, what hole he's expected to step into.

"Ship's status has not changed, Captain. As ordered, we are holding in standard orbit above the Halkan planet despite the ion storm. Did something go wrong during the negotiations?" Spock is watching him intently, eyes coldly _present_ instead of distant, weighing.

"Their Council is adamant that there will be no trade, no grant of mining rights." He wants to snarl -- how _dare_ these barely sentient bipedal worms try to defy the Empire -- but he keeps his voice even. The insignia on Spock's tunic is wrong, and he's unarmed. He never goes unarmed. "We have our orders, Commander."

"Indeed." Spock doesn't wait to be dismissed, either. He begins inspecting the transporter controls over Lieutenant Kyle's shoulder. Not, Kirk notes, relaying orders to Sulu on the Bridge. Kirk hesitates. Imperial orders are to kill anyone who gets in the way of the resources they need, and Spock should be initiating the destruction of the Halkan people, but he's acting as if he has more important things to do.

Kirk should not let this act of outright insubordination slide, but the ground beneath him is slippery, treacherous. Everything's off, and he doesn't know the rules of the game, any more than he did as a green cadet at the Academy, bearing his dead father's illustrious name but without a living father's protection.

_McCoy._ McCoy will know what's going on, how to counter it. Decision made, Kirk strides out of the transporter room and makes his way to deck five. The ship is exactly the same, his feet take him exactly where he wants to go, but the little things are irritatingly, distractingly different. The cool light. The door panels. The lack of security in the halls. Two layers of shirt twisting and rubbing on his scars, binding his arms uncomfortably.

Sickbay is strangely dim, and for a panicky moment Kirk thinks he's not there, that someone's _eliminated_ him somehow, before launching this mindfuck on him, and the rage flares up -- but he fights to capture and tame it. McCoy's taught him how to keep it tight, focused, blowtorch hot. He approaches that familiar office door, still feeling the adrenaline push -- and other stirrings -- and he's shocked when it simply slides open. McCoy never lets anyone enter his sanctum unannounced. He's suddenly certain he's going to find a mutilated body in an empty room when he steps in, but the office is distressingly normal.

"What new form of disease did you bring home this time? Or did you manage to pick a fight with the natives?" McCoy straightens up, a couple of padds in hand that must have slipped from the unsteady pile on the corner of his desk, and scowls at Kirk. He looks just the same, the man who trains him and treats him and protects him from the shadows, and his relief blossoms up in a momentary wide smile. With McCoy here all will be well.

"The natives are picking a fight with _me_, and they're not going to like the results. What's going on with Spock?" He says it bluntly. "Is he making a move?"

McCoy stares at him, eyebrows contracting. His eyes skim over Kirk's body, but the gaze is devoid of his usual fierce possessive appreciation, and he picks up a scanner and comes around the desk.

"No, there's no need, McCoy, I'm fine!" Kirk steps back towards the door, instinctively, catches an odd twitch in the doctor's face when he calls him by his name. "Nothing happened down there. Boring old men in robes, saying no a lot. The mission isn't the problem. Spock is up to something, he's messed with everything on the ship, trying to throw me off, you've got to tell me what we are going to do about it..."

"You're not fine, Jim. You're not making any sense." _Jim?_ McCoy's eyes are more amber than green, and Kirk can't identify the undercurrent to his mild words, but it's dark and strong and that's never good. His stomach sinks.

"It's...it's...it's a test, of some kind, isn't it? You two are doing this together, to see how I'll react." Of course it is, that has to be it, McCoy's always tempering him, making him stronger. But is he passing or failing?

"Somebody's testin' something, that's f'r damn sure. And if I were goin' t'pick someone to collude with on this ship, it sure's _hell_ wouldn't be Spock." Oh, he's angry now, the drawl is such a bad sign. "Sit _down_ and let me check your head."

Kirk backs toward the nearest chair and sits, looking down at the floor. Refusing McCoy when he's in this state is unthinkable -- but he's the one not making sense. McCoy and Spock work together on everything, up to and including Kirk's own body. The man runs the scanner over his head, frowns, and starts muttering at his tricorder in the way that means he doesn't like the results he's getting. Kirk risks a glance at McCoy's face, and the stormy scowl there is scary as hell, bringing the haggard lines of his face into grim relief.

"Bed," he says, firmly, and the strange dark note is back, but that command at least is right and reassuring. Kirk hurries to obey, scrambling out the door towards the nearest biobed. He unfastens his trousers and drops them around his calves, strips the bile-yellow outer shirt and the black undershirt off in one quick motion, and braces his hands against the foot of the bed. He licks his lips, already eager, ready to set things right again.

"Jim, what the _hell_ are you -- my God, man!"

Kirk bows his head down low, aching for the first blow to land, somewhere among the layers of discipline-stripes, trophy marks, and mission scars that criss-cross his ass, his thighs, his back. The caress of the agonizer, if McCoy feels he needs it.

But no blow falls, no hot words to further brand Kirk's psyche. The touch that comes is gentle, high on his back, and the voice is soft. "What happened to you?"

_Huh?_ Kirk can't help himself, he twists to look over his shoulder at the doctor. McCoy ought to be savoring or possessing, seizing or punishing, not just...standing there looking perturbed. Is he testing whether Kirk really needs this, wants McCoy to reclaim him after every trip outside the ship? Of course he does, more than ever right now, with everything so confused. He shifts his feet a little farther apart, pushes his hips back, spreads and exposes himself for the stabbing thrust of McCoy's cock.

"I came back to you," he answers, and waits in vain for a reply. Worry and frustration are bubbling up in him, little visions of chaos and blood pressing in around the edges of his psyche. "C'mon, _take_ me," he urges, trying to make it a challenge instead of a plea.

McCoy swallows a couple of times. "Pull your pants up and get on the bed."

Black emotions roar around him -- McCoy doesn't want him, doesn't need him, won't protect him? Kirk's fists clench against the end of the bed. He feels fingertips digging into his palms because his fingernails are too short; this can't be right, McCoy pinned him down and trimmed them back just this morning, one of a thousand things he does to keep Kirk under control.

But not this McCoy. No matter how much he looks like him, he isn't the McCoy Kirk knows, obeys, practically worships. This is a cold, cruel impostor, another part of the game they're playing with his head. Kirk breathes harder, struggling to control his fight or flight instincts while he bends slowly to lift and fasten his pants. He turns around, but he doesn't sit -- he doesn't have to obey this soft-voiced worm with gentle hands. Still, his hackles are up, ready for anything.

"How did you get this torn up?" The not-McCoy reaches out to brush the ridged pink scar along his ribs, and Kirk realizes with a shock that his fingers are trembling, ever so slightly.

"_You_ did that to me." Now he's the one testing.

"_I --_" McCoy shakes his head, looks Kirk in the face. "_I_ tried to cut your heart out?"

The words feel like a kick to his gut, and he explodes into motion, wrapping the imposter's outstretched arm in a judo hold, slamming his other hand up against the doctor's throat and forcing him back against the wall. The scar means nothing to him, worse than nothing, it means death instead of life; murder, instead of the beginning of belonging.

The doctor's hand wraps around his wrist, and where McCoy would know exactly where to grab to break his grip this man pulls uselessly.

"No!" Kirk barks. "Not you." His fingers and thumb dig in tight just under the man's jaw, pressing on the carotids hard enough to panic him, but not cutting off his air. "The _real_ Leonard H. McCoy gave me that scar."

"Only one Leonard McCoy here, and that's me," he says, voice cold and rough and frightened. "And I'm not in the habit of cutting up my friends."

Kirk snarls and bangs the back of the man's head off the wall, exhilaration and strain searing his throat. "Kirk and McCoy are not _friends_. Kirk and McCoy are passion and pain," he pants, and he wants to savage the mouth in front of him but it's still _his_ mouth. "Instinct, and intensity." Squeezing the arm tight because his grip on everything else is slipping, voice grating louder and louder. "Loyalty, ambition, glory...." Staring into those agonized, terrorized green-brown eyes because he knows there _must_ be an anchor submerged there somewhere. "Together -- Kirk and McCoy are together, in _everything!_ We're going to conquer the --"

The familiar sting of a hypo in Kirk's shoulder pulls him up short, and he has just enough time to pivot and grab for the blur of a science blue miniskirt before the floor rushes up to meet him, and then darkness.

* * *

 

Kirk drifts up toward consciousness, recognizing that he's bound to a biobed. He tries to remember what happened, how he got here, and at first there's dangerous nothing but he hears the familiar sound of McCoy ranting at Spock and it all comes surging back. They're _wrong,_ and he's _alone_.

"...you pointy-eared, cold-hearted --"

He's restrained tightly to the bed between them, and dull anger starts to simmer through the thickness of the drug in his veins. They have no right to strap him down, none at all, they're weak and stupid.

"Doctor," Spock says, evenly. "I believe it was you yourself who said that no universe can support more than one James Kirk at a time. We have no way of knowing whether this is normal --"

"He says I did this to him, Spock! He wanted me to _beat_ him. Does that sound _normal_ to you? In any universe?" _My_ normal, _my_ universe, Kirk thinks. Fury climbs his nervous system, sizzling away the fading sedative. His heart thumps, the heart that belongs to McCoy, and the biobed is starting to react.

"-- and," Spock continues relentlessly, without a change in timbre or tone, "the chances of getting our own captain back decrease exponentially unless we return him to his proper place."

Kirk's lips peel back; his muscles cord and strain and he fights the restraints with everything he has. He's struggling to clear his blurry vision, to find the leverage to lash out at them both.

"_Enough_!" McCoy snaps, but the familiar command just makes him angrier, and he arches his back off the bed, roaring wordlessly. It's Spock's firm hand that presses down on his bare chest, stronger and warmer than McCoy's ever is. McCoy's got his face, his icy hands burning against the flushed skin. "Dammit, Jim, I'll pull a hypo on you if I have to."

"Fuck you," he growls, violently turning his head away.

The doctor's hands fall away. Kirk feels more than sees the look exchanged between the two men looming over him.

"Your desire to protect your patient is admirable, as always, Doctor," Spock finally says into the silence, likewise releasing Kirk, who continues to pant and pull on the restraints. "But it is not logical."

"_Scott to Sickbay._" The doctor snarls impotently at the interruption, at the cold logic, at Kirk's struggles...who can say?

"Spock here. Go ahead, Mister Scott."

"_I think I've got the ruddy thing in order, now, but ye've only got fi'e minutes or so before the storm clears._"

McCoy looks down at Kirk, his eyes dark and inscrutable. "Hear that? We're sending you home."

He snarls, cheek twitching, but he stops fighting the bonds. "I don't belong here."

"I know." McCoy sounds...weary, maybe? Kirk's not sure. "Should have known when you called me by my name."

The restraints are retracted; the doctor takes a step back from the bed when Kirk sits up, and Kirk sneers at his fear, eyes smoldering. He's still breathing hard, hands trembling, murderous rage still boiling -- but there's no point to fighting and nowhere to run. This whole universe is cold, wrong, suffocating under the weight of its softness, and he has to escape it.

"Captain, if you would come with me, please," Spock says.

Kirk puts on the yellow shirt, and makes no attempt to fight as Spock leads the two of them down the busy corridor. He hates them all, these crewpeople who acknowledge him with a nod or a cheerful wave or nothing it all, and he hates this not-vicious not-Spock, and most of all he hates, loathes, despises this horrible weak miserable not-McCoy.

He's seething with anger when they enter the transporter room. The moment he's in position on the platform, he snaps "_Energize_," and Scott, at least, has the sense to obey him.


	3. Chapter 3

  
_We never know the worth of water till the well is dry. ~Thomas Fuller, Gnomologia, 1732_   


When the door slides shut behind Spock and this strange Kirk, Leonard lets his eyes close and his shoulders sag for just a moment before he turns, planning to retreat to his office. Chapel's hand closes around his bicep, and he jumps.

"No you don't," she says, pulling him back toward the bed. "We need to have a look at your head and your throat. And any other damage he might have done you don't want to tell me about, you'd better 'fess up to -- because _you_ need to set a good example. Right?"

"Damn you," he croaks, but settles on the bed. "Using my own arsenal against me." A weak effort. He's not surprised when she doesn't smile.

"So?" Chapel asks, starting her scan where his head was slammed into the wall. He knows better than to move. Despite his general sense of pessimism about life, the universe, and everything, he's pretty sure she's not going to find anything other than minor swelling and broken capillaries beneath his skin.

"Nothing you didn't see. Thank you, for coming up on him so quiet." He's a little surprised how much speaking hurts, wonders yet again how Jim managed so well after Spock throttled him on the bridge.

"You're welcome."

He should be going with Spock, should be there to make sure Jim's okay when he gets back from whatever side-universe the transporter reconstituted him in. A much, much darker place, and Leonard isn't sure his imagination can come up with anything near what might have happened to make the other Kirk the person he is. The way his gut curdles at the idea of seeing Jim feels cowardly; he should head down to the transporter room or up to the bridge to check on Jim once Chapel finishes what she's doing.

But he's also pretty sure, regardless what happened _there_, Jim won't deal well with Leonard flinching away from him. If Jim doesn't flinch away first.

And _that_ idea, Leonard admits only to himself, scares him most of all. A reaction he isn't ready to examine closely.

"It's a good thing you've got a thick skull," Chapel says, tilting his head back to start on his throat.

"I don't think he really wanted to hurt me," he answers. He'd rather not be thinking about any of this.

"Maybe not." Her fingertips are cool on his chin. "This doesn't look as bad as I expected, either."

Would this be easier if Kirk _had_ wanted to hurt him? He'd certainly been more than angry enough. Angry because Leonard wouldn't abuse him, which doesn't make any goddamned _sense_. His fingers clench around the edge of the bed, and the reminder doesn't help. Masochism as a fetish he understands, but the way the stranger reacted to him suggested he'd expected to be struck, and _not_ in play. The marks on Kirk's backside were a road map of harm, and the scarring suggested indifferent care at best.

Mistreating anyone -- or failing to treat them -- is beyond Leonard. He might get sharp with those injured of their own stupidity and impatient with those who won't listen, but not even Jocelyn could say he'd abused her. To be _expected_ to be a monster is ....

"Hey," Chapel says, patting his cheek lightly. "You in there?"

"Sorry." He sounds better, and speaking doesn't hurt much.

"I said, 'I'm done, and M'benga's here.'" She's pulling his sleeve back into place; the aching bruise near his elbow is gone as well.

"'You're healthy, get out of my Sickbay?'"

"Well," she says, "it's not mine. Yet. But you're not on-duty anymore. You should get out of here, get some rest."

He nods, slides off the table, heads for his office instead. She sets her hands on her hips, and he feels her eyes on him until the door slides closed, but he wants to call down to the transporter room.

_"...Scott here."_

"Did it work?" he asks.

_"Oh, aye, Doctor, it worked a treat. Got him back in one piece an' everything, right as rain. He's gone up to the bridge wi' Commander Spock. Lieutenant Kyle and I are working on the why of it now."_

"Good. Thank you. McCoy out." He lets out a long breath, but knowing Jim is safe is colored by a guilty, selfish relief. If Jim doesn't need medical attention, then Leonard doesn't have to feel as bad for not going straight to his side, for not being ready to face those piercing blue eyes just yet, for being afraid to find out more about what -- or who -- Jim confronted in the other universe. He can trust Spock to look out for Jim.

_Spock is up to something._ He'd been near hysterical with the thought, and he'd expected Leonard -- no, _McCoy_ \-- to already have a plan. Until he'd thought McCoy was _behind_ Spock's actions, which was even more disturbing, because Leonard had the feeling Kirk, sitting right there where he always did when he came to Leonard's office, had been perfectly okay with the idea of McCoy setting up some sort of elaborate mind-game to test him.

His head throbs, and the office begins to feel claustrophobic instead of safe. He turns on his heel and walks out of the room, pausing for a quick consult with M'Benga on Krycek's sore throat. He asks M'Benga to remind the captain he needs to stop by Sickbay, and heads down to his quarters.

Halfway there, he resets the lift for C Deck and the gymnasium; if his thoughts are going to chase themselves in circles, he might as well get on a treadmill. He changes into a pair of sweats and moves through warm-up into a steady jog he can maintain for a while, towel draped over his shoulder. Tries to focus on the movement, rather than the memory of Jim's -- no, _Kirk's_ \-- hand around his throat, the speed with which Leonard had been pinned to the wall, the burning rage behind the hot blue eyes searching Leonard's for he didn't even know what. Violence? Anger? The monster Kirk expected to be there?

_Passion and pain. Instinct, and intensity._

The monster Kirk _wanted_ to be there?

You _gave that to me._

Someone -- all right, the parallel Leonard -- had carved the scar into Kirk's chest, and he treated the injury ... like a _gift_, something he was _proud_ of. Leonard catches himself scowling, and sweeps the towel off his shoulder to mop the sweat off his face, schooling his expression. Hopes Jim hadn't gone to the _other_ Sickbay looking for help, dismayed to think he probably had. Lord knew if he'd been caught somewhere things were so very _wrong_ he'd go looking for Jim, on the assumption they'd be able to figure things out together.

_Kirk and McCoy are together, in_ everything_!_

_I came back to you._

No.

He misses a step, stumbles, hits the emergency stop on the treadmill because he's gone lightheaded. Bends over, trying to pull in a full breath, heart pounding as much from a sudden rush of adrenaline as the exertion of the run.

_Come on, Bones, what are you bitching about? I came back, and in fewer pieces than usual. We should be celebrating!_

_I came back to you._

But _how_ could Kirk ...

No, he chides himself. Sometimes there is no how, no why. Despite Spock, some things simply are not logical, do not respond to reason. Some things just _are_.

Even if they don't make sense.

He shakes his head, straightens up, heads for the shower. Sonics don't do nearly what water would to clear his head, but his breathing's evened out again by the time he's dressed. He calls up to Sickbay to see if Jim's been by, and of course he hasn't. Leonard wonders why he'd hoped Jim would -- he never willingly comes to Sickbay unless he's looking for Leonard, and he's capable of hiding incredible amounts of pain from the rest of the crew if he has a reason. Which means Leonard will most likely have to drag Jim down to M'Benga to get him looked at, if Jim won't go on his own.

Commander Cobar is leaning over the helm when Leonard steps off the turbolift several minutes later. He gives Leonard a wave and gestures toward the door leading to the Captain's ready room, and Leonard nods. He's not sure he's ready for this, not sure he's got the bright madness of that other captain sufficiently separated from Jim in his head.

He's not _entirely_ surprised to find Jim in the small conference room with Scott and Spock, and only the latter fully sober. Scott's talking expansively, hands everywhere, and Jim's watching him intently, though he flicks a quick glance at the opening door.

His grin is broad and white and utterly fake. "Bones! Scotty's trying to explain what happened with the transporter. Doesn't make much sense, though."

"Och, come now, Captain, it makes perfect sense...'tis the ionic interference, 'tween the fabric of the universe, an' the fabric of the Other Kirk's shirt -- gold, ye say, metallic gold. Reflective interactions between the particles compounded by interference from the ion storm...throw our transporter harmonics into the mix and..." He makes explosive motions with his hands.

Leonard, who really didn't want to know, looks to Spock for help, but even he looks slightly bemused.

"The captain is of the opinion that the liberal ingestion of Mister Scott's home-brew will allow better comprehension of Mister Scott's theory."

"You explained to them that this is not logical, I assume?"

"Indeed, doctor," Spock says, with the tiniest upward twitch of his eyebrow, something Leonard's learned to read as amusement. "But it is fascinating to watch them try."

Jim determinedly ignores their byplay, finishing his drink. His smile remains, but his fingertips are white where he grips the tumbler.

"Jim," Leonard plunges in, "_you_ should have had your ass down in Sickbay as soon as we broke orbit. Now, if you'd like I can stand here and rant about the sheer number of allergens, pathogens, or parasites you might be carrying, or you can spare me the effort and Spock and Scott a lecture _they_ don't need. Your call."

Leonard sees the faintest shift in Spock's expression toward a frown, but he's more concerned about the shadow crossing Jim's face. He considers alternatives to Sickbay because he's already pretty sure this is more than Jim's normal avoidance of after-mission checkups. The secondary Bay on Deck 6 should be properly stocked; he can suggest they go there, though Jim may not want to be alone with him. Something twists in his chest; he resists the urge to fold his arms.

Jim slides his hands back to the edge of the table, pushing himself away. "Can't it wait for the morning, Bones? I could really just use a good night's sleep."

Part of him wants to say yes, fine, it can wait; most of him knows better. "M'Benga or me, Jim, but somebody's got to have a look at you. I know you don't like it, but there's a reason for protocol."

Jim stands with a faint wobble, sharpening Leonard's attention -- an awful lot of booze or injury is required to compromise Jim's sure-footedness -- and his sulky "don't wanna" expression gradually hardens into something more determined.

"Scott, Spock, leave us please."

Leonard blinks; Scott looks startled at the sudden command, but Spock rises easily to his feet and Scott follows him. Leonard steps out of the doorway.

"Commander, Chief," Jim says with a slight nod of the head.

"Captain," Spock answers; Scott echoes him, and in short order Leonard's left staring at Jim across the empty room. Jim pours another measure of clear liquor into his tumbler, as tightly controlled as Leonard has ever seen him. He might as well be on the bridge, negotiating with some hostile force, and he still hasn't looked Leonard in the eyes.

"Jim, if you'd rather have M'Benga --"

"No." His tone is hard, clipped. "You brought a kit. We can get this over with here." But he doesn't put the drink aside, nor invite Leonard closer.

"How bad?"

Jim's nostrils flare. "Wasn't a place I want to go back to, that's for sure. The -- wrong me. He attacked you?"

"Yeah." Leonard grimaces, though he should have known Spock would brief Jim. "Kinda. Banged my head off the wall and throttled me some." He tries to echo Jim's nonchalance, but he can feel himself starting to shake again, and he forces a few even breaths in and out, pushing down the reaction, before he speaks again. "I wasn't who he came looking for."

"You're okay now?"

"Chapel took care of my injuries, so I'm doing better than you are."

Jim's lips thin, but he doesn't argue, just takes another slug of moonshine. Either the drink or knowing Leonard's dealing with the same unsettling horror settles Jim some, and he beckons Leonard around the table. Jim eases up onto the hard metal surface, eyes locked on the small viewer linked to the bridge display. Empty space, and a few stars.

Leonard unpacks his equipment with slow, steady hands despite the uncomfortable silence he isn't sure how to break. The scanner in his hands tells him entirely too much about just what Jim suffered over there, and he takes a moment to adjust a setting, using the action to smother the surge of impotent confused rage sweeping through him; banishing the inappropriate emotion into a back compartment of his mind.

When he's sure his voice won't shake, he asks the necessary question. "So it was me, then, did this to you?"

Jim turns his head and looks straight at Leonard, and his eyes are dull slate instead of agate, sapphire, ocean, whatever comparisons Leonard has heard or made a thousand times before. The emotionless gaze is answer enough to just about stop Leonard's heart.

"Jesus, Jim. I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter," he says quietly. "It didn't even happen as far as this timeline is concerned."

"Horseshit," Leonard says. "Tip your head back so I can get at the bruise that's not on your neck."

Jim lifts his chin obediently, but there's no missing the gooseflesh that crawls along his throat. Leonard hesitates, thinking he should let M'benga treat Jim instead -- M'benga's the physician on-duty, and Jim's body is giving away his unspoken revulsion at Leonard's proximity. Even though Leonard knows _he_ didn't -- wouldn't -- rape anybody, Jim's reaction still evokes guilt, guilt he's trying to lock away with the rage when Jim speaks.

"Just fix it, Bones. I've taken worse damage being polite to Andorians -- I'll be fine."

"You always are." His words come out acid-etched and bitter, and he scolds himself while continuing to scan and repair, careful to touch Jim as little as possible.

When he sweeps across Jim's chest, he nearly drops the instrument and does take an involuntary step backward before forcing himself to stay where he is and repeat the assay. Which he does, pauses to recalibrate the instrument, and again. The machine persists in reporting scar tissue Leonard knows should not be there.

Jim sighs minutely, lifts his shirts high enough to reveal an angry, raised pink scar. In exactly the same spot as the other Kirk's. Fully healed, impossibly older than the few hours Jim was away from them.

You _gave me this_.

"I need a minute," Leonard says, stepping to one side. He sets down the scanner and puts both hands on the table, head spinning. The urge to grab Jim by the arm and haul him down to Sickbay so he can remove the damned scar follows the guilt and rage and fear into his mental "later" compartment. Jim needs him to be cool and professional. So he'll be what Jim needs right now, and deal with anything else only when he has to.

The dizziness subsides, the strange possessive anger is folded up and put aside; Leonard stands, a little surprised to see Jim still baring his chest.

"Guess I'm not doing as well as I thought," Leonard says, a little hoarsely, picking the scanner up and setting back to work. He clears his throat. "Sorry. Déjà vu. He jumped me when I questioned his statement that I gave him that scar." Close enough to the truth. "This is much too well-healed -- how long were you there?"

"A couple of hours at most. It was done with a knife. And then a regenerator, very slowly. It hurt."

"I'll bet." A muscle in Leonard's cheek twitches. "Go ahead and pull your shirt down. Never would have occurred to me to use a regenerator to _make_ a scar."

He wonders if the same thing was done to the other Kirk, wonders now how much of Kirk's madness _he_ \-- or, rather, McCoy, _dammit_ \-- is responsible for.

"A lesson about betrayal," Jim says, under his breath, snugging the shirt down around his waist. He takes another gulp of his drink.

"What?"

"'When I gave him this, I was making a point about betrayal. For you, it's a souvenir.'" He knows how Jim's memory works and doesn't doubt the words are exact, but the flat mimicry of his own voice saying words he knows he's never said is eerie.

Leonard suppresses the growl tightening his chest, keeps his tone even by sheer force of will. "When you're ready, come down to Sickbay and we'll remove it. Lie back."

"No."

Startled by the flat refusal, Leonard frowns at Jim for a moment before his lips tighten at his own stupidity. Of course Jim doesn't want to lie back; he needs to be able to move if Leonard does something threatening. He'd been worried Jim might flinch or panic, but this cool _management_ of his fear is almost stranger to cope with. Still, Leonard can take care of what needs mending while Jim's sitting up and clothed. So he nods, and with a shaky sigh kneels down to tend to the rope burns and bruises on Jim's legs as well as his more intimate injuries.

He uses the table next to Jim's hip to lever himself back to his feet when he's finished, puts the medical gear away.

"Don't take me off duty."

"I wasn't planning on it. Enforced inactivity is never good for you." He sighs. "And Spock will be watching you like a hawk while you're on the Bridge, anyway."

Jim nods. "If you want time off...."

Leonard shakes his head, slinging the strap to the kit over his shoulder. "No more than you do."

He'd like to reach out, clap Jim on the shoulder, tell him everything will be back to normal in no time. But his touch is unwelcome and any sudden move is likely to get him laid out flat, and one way or another he knows things between them have been irrevocably changed.

"You know where to find me if you need me."


	4. Chapter 4

  
_Water is the one substance from which the earth can conceal nothing; it sucks out its innermost secrets and brings them to our very lips. ~Jean Giraudoux, The Madwomen of Chaillot, 1946_   


Jim stares, unseeing, at the stars in the viewer, listening to Bones retreat from the ready room. Or the _not ready_ room, as the case may be. The door slides shut and he sets the lock with his command override.

He drops into one of the hard chairs, folds his arms on the table, and lets his head fall onto them, trying to quiet the tremors of tension in his muscles. His mind chases itself in circles — he wants to go to Bones for help; but Bones' mere presence agitated him like an overcharging phaser, which means going to him will make it worse; but _his_ Bones didn't do this, so there's no need to be afraid; he should just call him back and ask for help. But looking up to see him standing in the ready room doorway, eyes hard with the worry Bones always tries so hard to disguise as temper, had felt like the sharp edge of the knife against his skin, had brought back the panic, the helplessness.

_I'm going to take what I want, and then we'll see about getting you home again. _

He shudders and pushes back from the table, and recognizing misplaced adrenaline in his irrational urge to get up and run doesn't help in the slightest. He should have asked Bones for something to keep him calm, let him sleep, he needs time to put this in perspective but seeing Bones with a hypo in his hand might just have been the startled bird that sets a stampede in motion.

He stands up and paces, wishes he could push the table to the side and give himself more room to move but like almost everything else on the ship it's fixed to the floor. The immutability only intensifies his sudden claustrophobia, even though it usually gives him a sense of security, knowing everything around him would still be exactly where it's supposed to be if the world turned upside down.

Hot anger rushes through him again and he paces a little faster. That universe had _nothing_ to do with this one. The scene of the crime was a pocket hell, an aberration of spacetime that's even farther away in probability than it is in light years. But the bizarre similarity to his real life is poisoning things _here_, and he can't let that happen. His quarters are a place of quiet refuge, and Bones is his closest friend, and he needs to convince himself of both sooner rather than later.

But he knows it's not going to happen right this moment; he's all too aware that he's running only on moonshine and the dregs of adrenaline.

Jim's never used the ready room to rest during a crisis, and it takes him a few moments to figure out how to unfold the cot from the wall. He lies down and pulls a forearm up to cover his eyes. For half an hour, perhaps, meditation and self-hypnosis techniques allow him to keep the misbegotten memories at bay, just long enough to give him some cruel hope that he'll be able to sleep. And then the scar on his ribcage starts to itch.

_This body.... I've mended it so many times._

He throws himself over onto his side, trying to drive that _voice_ out of his head. The gloating, the possessiveness, it's all wrong, but still _his_ voice, never neutral, always colored with a growl or a drawl or that dry sardonic humor. Even in another universe.

_Maybe I don't want to fix it_, he'd said with an oh-so-familiar raised eyebrow.

Jim curls tighter around himself. It doesn't matter that it's something Bones would never say. He's heard it and now his memory won't stop replaying it.

_Can't have you forgetting me, after all._

He tries desperately to pull back to some kind of serenity; come up with a plan to convince the Halkans their dilithium won't be misused, review their upcoming stop at Starbase Four, speculate about the next leg of their mission. He's the captain, he's got this big rational brain, he shouldn't be falling apart over this.

_It's up to you how many pieces you're in when you get there. _

He sits up, considers and quick-rejects half a dozen other options that involve leaving this room and facing the crew, and finally leans off the cot far enough to grab the half-full bottle of liquor from the table. It's not a long-term solution — hell, it's not a solution at all — but he figures it'll do for the moment.

The alcohol finally gets him to some form of stuporous sleep, but it doesn't stop him from dreaming, and he wakes himself jerking violently against ropes that aren't holding him and fingers that aren't violating him. He stumbles out of the cot and into the tiny head in the corner, leaning against the wall until he can fight the nausea back. Just a hangover, he tells himself — Scotty's hooch is strong enough to put a rhinoceros on its ass, after all.

Jim rinses his mouth and rakes fingers through his hair, then turns back to the ready room and checks the the display in the viewer, noting the time. The starfield looks nearly the same as the night before, and his knuckles ache where they curl into fists against his thighs. If he's going to be awake at this hour, he wants to look out a window at dawn-lit fog, or go for a run around the cornfields. It's the first hint of homesickness he's felt since he left Earth, and he shakes his head at himself in disgust.

He glances at the rumpled cot, briefly wonders who's responsible for maintaining this seldom-used room, and pauses to drop the empty bottle in the recycler. Then he unlocks the door and leaves, acknowledging the startled gamma bridge crew with a brisk nod. He heads straight for the turbolift and down to the gym, striding with purpose so no one will interrupt him.

Once there, Jim sends a message to his yeoman, asking to have a brand new uniform sent down, then changes into his sweats.

He needs to burn off some of this miserable nervous energy. His first thought is to take on the heavy bag, let some of the aggression go, but the last thing he wants is to visualize Bones' face under his fists. The treadmill seems like a safer bet, but even settling into a hard run gives his brain too much leeway to brood. He tries to focus on the movement, rather than the memory of Bones' — no, _McCoy's_ — hands on his body, the ease with which Jim had been fought down and bound, the lascivious possessiveness behind those too-familiar eyes....

_I've been intimate with James Tiberius Kirk for years._

No.

Jim stumbles briefly, but sets his jaw and pushes harder, faster. Different universe, different people, a twisted intimacy that has everything to do with violence and coercion and nothing to do with half-laughs and quirked eyebrows over a meal, with sharp _dammit, Jim_s. He is _not_ going to let this tie more knots in his chest. He keeps running until he's got a strong endorphin burn going, until his lungs ache, until unwanted thoughts fade beneath the needs of his body.

When he can't run anymore, he gives in to the desire for a long hot water shower, scrubbing himself from top to toe. It's a wasteful indulgence and a cliched reaction, and his shoulders bunch with self-directed annoyance, but to hell with it. He needs the scouring after a night tossing and turning in his alcohol fumes and the long sweaty run.

He feels better afterward, more settled, as he pulls on a fresh gold shirt and grooms himself meticulously in the mirror. He tries on a smile, and the faint shadows under his eyes temporarily vanish. It looks good. Nothing has changed.

The early run has killed his appetite, so he heads straight up to the bridge, eager for the start of a new alpha shift. Spock gives him an inscrutable look, studying the way he trots down the steps and takes the chair, but there's nothing for him to see this time. Jim smiles at him and accepts his padd from the yeoman. Ship's status is good; he zips through his message queue, discarding the request from medical for a counseling session, and then asks for the shift summaries. Gamma's is boring, as it should be, but he takes his time surveying the details. Beta shift is a little less dull; Scotty filed his report on the transporter malfunction and Jim leans on the arm of the chair and twists and turns the equations in his head until they start to make some sort of sense. The transposition itself...still so damned dependent on coincidence...two starships, two captains, two missions, two transporters being used at the same damn time through the same damn ion storm...what are the odds? He doesn't ask Spock because the numbers don't matter, because all the universes where it _didn't_ happen that way have some other, happier, Captain Kirk sitting in his chair this morning.

The incident report describing the other Kirk's escapades in Medical is brisk and detached, and Jim does his best to prevent the bland words from conjuring visions of his hand on Bones' throat, or waking restrained to a bed in sickbay. Instead he makes himself look at his distorted reflection through his friend's eyes, remembers the shaky way Bones reacted to him in the ready room. Jim hopes Chapel is keeping a watchful eye on him.

His fingers hesitate over Bones' medical report but there's no point in dodging it. He needs to write his own summary of the incident and he can't do that without knowing what's in this one. Besides, he needs to understand how much Spock knows; his first officer has certainly read it by now.

Jim glances up at Spock, who is looking very hawk-like indeed at the science station, and arches an eyebrow. Spock turns back to his work, and Jim looks around the bridge for anything else that needs his attention before shifting the padd to his left hand, leaning on the other arm of the chair and scratching idly at his chest.

He frowns over the medical report. Bones usually gets right to the point, but other than the summary line that basically says "the captain is fine", the rest is as turgid and jargon-laced as any of the meaningless padded journal articles they'd laughed over together, studying in their shared dorm room at the Academy. He reads it through, and all the queasy details are there and truthful for anyone who cares to dig enough to find them, but he knows Bones has gone to some effort to bury the story they tell; has made it a lot easier for Jim to write a report that glosses over the ugly bits.

That crawling itch travels over his skin again, and he's not sure whether he should be grateful for the leeway or worried about the incremental erosion of their sense of professional ethics, at least where it comes to each other.

He considers while taking care of other bridge business. When there's nothing left that needs his approval, he retreats, feeling eyes on his back as he asks his yeoman to bring him a sandwich and heads for the ready room to work on the report; Spock may be the only one who isn't wondering why he doesn't dictate in the captain's chair where he normally does all his routine work. Determined to get this over with quickly and quietly, he makes the most of the leeway Bones has given him and keeps the focus of the report on the inadvisability of using the transporter in an ion storm; the particular dangers of one universe among an infinite multitude of possibilities are far less important than keeping crossovers from happening in the first place.

Satisfied with the result, Jim sends the report off to the proper queues, relieved to put the last of it behind him. He takes a moment to send a commendation to Chapel's file, discards the bulk of the barely tasted sandwich, and returns to the command chair. He finishes the rest of his shift in a better mood, resisting the urge to push the warp engines just to make the uneventful trip to the Starbase shorter. He has to grin ruefully over the fact that despite his best juvenile intentions, grown-up things like fuel consumption curves actually do win out over the desire to beat the are-we-there-yet blues.

Boring or not, Jim is reluctant to give up the chair at the beginning of beta shift. He lingers on the bridge for half an hour, touching base with staff and crew he doesn't see as often as alpha, but eventually hunger drives him down to the officer's mess. He automatically searches the room for Bones; a knot forms in his chest when he realizes how much of a habit it is for the two of them to eat dinner together.

He swallows back the tightness and gathers a plate of unappetizing food, and settles into conversation with some of the junior ensigns rather than dining alone.

When Spock arrives, Jim pushes aside his picked-over plate and invites him to a game of chess, and they spend the evening deep in conversation about free will: whether choices mean anything at all, if each one generates its own timeline where the consequences play out differently. If his first officer is studying him more closely than usual between moves, Jim ignores it; he feels better now, almost normal again.

After Spock retires, Jim takes a brisk walk through the late-night corridors of the ship, telling himself it's an effective way to put his restless energy to use. He stops in a few of the essential nerve centers, places he knows there are always people on-duty, and is rewarded with surprised smiles. The captain's attention on the work they do, which normally goes unseen, is good for morale.

It cheers Jim up too, but the silence closes in once he's back in the empty white corridors. His fingers tap a fast drumbeat against his thigh as he walks. He finds himself wondering if it would be practical to have a bar on a starship, rather than the haphazard smuggled booze and engineered moonshine scattered around people's quarters, then snorts at himself. Turn the _Enterprise_ into a luxury cruise ship, at that rate, complete with shuffleboard and gift shops.

He's running out of decks to explore, and the nerve-wracking urge to sit down somewhere and rest is growing. But he perks up when he happens upon an off-duty card game in the back of the engine room; the engineers welcome him heartily and after a few jokes about suffering from "universe lag", he forbids Scotty to muddy the game with his many insane theories about alternate dimensions. After everyone else has dropped out and wandered off, the two of them end up tearing apart a driver coil left sluggish after the ion storm, and they argue hotly about what materials some of the components _ought_ to be made out of until well into the wee hours.

It turns out that a hammock slung between the support columns for the impulse engine housing does not, in fact, rock you to sleep like a baby.

He shows up early for alpha shift, and though it's energizing to hear the bridge humming with purposeful chatter from competent people, Jim finds himself wishing he could sleep in the command chair — he's more comfortable here than in either the hammock or the ready room cot. He reviews his checklists, consults with his section chiefs, discards more messages from Medical, and tries not to look too often for activity on the long range sensors, though he has to do _something_ to keep his eyes from drifting closed when the starfield on the screen gets too mesmerizing for his weary brain.

It makes perfect sense that Bones doesn't come to the bridge. Jim's not the only one who's been through an ordeal with his best friend's double, and he knows neither of them needs to explain the desire for a little time and space. But damn it, he misses Bones' presence behind his chair. A hundred times he thinks of something to ask or share, and a hundred times recoils from seeking Bones out — the constant reminders of all the normal things that have been disrupted are almost more exhausting than the lack of sleep or his painful memories.

But who else can he confide in? He wants to hash this out with _Bones_, who's always been there. He's still The Captain to everyone else; he's friendly with all his people, especially the senior crew, but has never really tried to _make friends_ with anyone else — he hasn't needed to. He's never quite realized how much he counts on always having Bones at his side.

_When you're ready, come down to Sickbay. _

What if he's never ready? That's just...he can't allow himself to even _think_ that way.

He tries to picture walking down to Medical at the end of alpha, stretching out in his chair in Bones' office like he always does, waiting for Bones to pour him a drink. But the eyes he sees are always calculating, and there's a knife, and... damn it. He rubs his palms against his trousers.

Those images are never going to go away unless he replaces them with new ones.

Jim folds his arms over his chest. He can do that, and he will. Not today, maybe. But soon.

He's doing well, really. All he needs is a little more time to put things behind him, let his rational self convince the rest of him that visceral reactions aren't needed or helpful, and he's got to believe everything will fall back into place.

The end of his shift arrives too soon, and after hesitating in the lift for a moment, Jim heads down to the mess in the rec room, once again finding the deviation from his routine worth the pleasure of eating with a different set of officers. Not that much of the meal wins the battle against the acid heartburn that fills the hollow inside him, but it's easy to lose track, telling stories and winning eager smiles from the proud and loyal crew members who don't always get to participate in the _Enterprise_'s adventures firsthand.

He's happy to settle into the entertainment lounge to watch pre-warp science fiction movies with some of the administrative section, hollering at the screen with gusto, and when the last of the yeomen has taken their leave, he queues up a couple of his own favorite Westerns and lets himself sink into the corner of the empty couch.

No one asked why he was there, or whether he was going to bed soon. His crew make him welcome, grateful for his interest, but his presence is something they adjust to without thinking; a stone diverting the lively stream of their day for only a brief moment.

It takes a film and a half for his eyes to finally slide closed without some violent memory yanking them open again.

An hour later, he wakes up in a cold sweat, pain and panic spiking through his chest and the bitter taste of betrayal in his mouth.

He's up off the couch, hurrying towards the turbolift and trying to escape the clawing fingers of nightmare before he has any idea where he's going. Deck Five means Sickbay, it means safety... only it doesn't now. But he's going there anyway. In Sickbay — if nothing else, he can demand a dreamless sleep in Sickbay, they can't deny him that.

He reviewed the shift roster yesterday and ought to know who will be there at four in the morning, he knows he should, but his knees go weak when the door slides open. Bones sits, scowling at a padd, at Christine's desk for some reason instead of back in his office. Relief surges through Jim, the lightheaded desire to just close his eyes, let Bones take care of everything — and at the same time he's paralyzed, unable to step out of the doorway.

_You know where to find me if you need anything._

Bones glances up, and Jim sees the slight wary widening of his eyes, the sudden subtle tension in the way his back straightens.

"Captain," he says, setting the padd aside.

_Captain_, he thinks stupidly. _Be the Captain_. He's not sure what Bones sees, but the carefully neutral poker face slips a bit, the worried creases deepen between his brows.

"Jim?"

He can't find words, for the first time in years. He's seeing a face that means two, three, five different things to him — his attacker, his healer, his companion on too many adventures, confidant for too many midnight miseries — and he doesn't know who he wants. Jim puts a hand out blindly to the doorframe, and all he can come up with is his name.

"Bones...?" Too soft, too rough, and what the hell is _wrong_ with him?

There's a hesitation, but then Bones get to his feet, slowly. _Not him, not him, not him_ — Jim's rational mind tries to hold him in place, but the deliberate, catlike way the man in the blue shirt moves is all wrong, and Jim backs away into the hall.

The automatic door slides shut between them and Jim turns and he's _hurrying_ away, not running, no, definitely not running but Bones calls out behind him and he slides down the ladder rails of the nearest Jeffries tube, down to the next deserted deck. He knows immediately where the next access is, goes down, down, deck after deck, hard physical railings under his hands, not the smooth electromagnetic transport of the turbolifts. He climbs into the diagonal shafts that thread the Enterprise's long graceful neck. Slide, climb down, drop, slide, drop. He's sweaty and sick by the time he reaches the shuttle hangar, but he keeps going, loping across the open deck all the way to the back, pressing palms right up against the hangar doors to catch his breath before he pivots to look all around.

Too easy for someone to see him here, and cracking open a shuttle will alert the computer. Panting, he looks up instead, at the catwalks and ladders edging the individual shuttle bays. The rungs are cold beneath his hands, pulling him up and up until there is nowhere left to go, just a narrow, grated walkway, probably still pristine and untouched since the last inspection. He lies down on his side, breathing hard, looking out unseeing over the fifty meter drop to the hangar floor.

Alone, out of sight of his crew — almost as alone here as he was in that other universe, cut off from help and unable to save himself.

His muscles settle, the sustaining endorphins fall away, and his sweat dries; nausea returns with the feeling of crawling fingers on his body. He clamps a hand over his chest, over the ache of strained scar tissue that's only a mild echo of the knife in his mind, and his thumb snugs naturally against the curved ridge of puckered skin like it was made to fit. He's as far away from his quarters as he can get, while remaining on the _Enterprise_, and there is still no escape.

Despair sweeps through him like a dust storm. There _is_ no escape. His body carries the violation with him wherever he goes; the scar can be removed but the memories will never go away. No matter how deeply his rational brain accepts that past is past and alternate universes don't affect this one, he will have that evil Bones waiting for him whenever he closes his eyes.

He swallows back bile.

He's never been so goddamn powerless. Feeling the knife at his throat, even grappling hand to hand — at first it had been easy to see his attacker as just another alien, or robot, or some _other_ entity wearing his friend's face. Somehow it had all unraveled, become personal, when he'd felt McCoy's erection pressing against him. He'd stopped being Captain Kirk then, he'd just been Jim, confused and afraid, and it had given Bones' doppelganger the upper hand. And now he has to live with the consequences — and the unholy pleasure the doctor had wrung out of him.

He wants to believe he'd been dosed with some terrible aphrodisiac while he was unconscious, but he knows better. Mercilessly tied and exposed, he hadn't been able to stop the gloating gaze or the knife that crawled over every part of him, or to ward off the searing violation, or even to sustain the willpower to fight back his tears — and yet he had responded to Bones' touch even in that horrific form. His body had climaxed, uncaring of pain and terror and shame.

And that other McCoy — this hadn't been new to him. He'd bragged of the intimacies he shared with his Kirk.

_His_ Kirk.

Jim retches helplessly, even though his stomach is barren and empty.

His Bones —

He retches again, harder, clinging to the base of the railing, feeling like both his body and mind are turning inside out up here on the catwalk.

Helpless rage floods through him, something he hasn't felt since the day he'd slammed the accelerator to the floor back in Iowa, revving a hunk of metal toward free fall failure, running from and revenging himself on the intolerable, invincible unfairness of the universe. It was the same powerlessness, the same sense of doom about the future, the same desperation to make it _end_, one way or another...

He holds on tighter.

A steady clatter of boot heels on deck plating alerts him that he's been found, and his heart pounds and his knuckles whiten. He rolls onto his back, making himself harder to see. _Time to end it_? No, time to move, time to run, thread the maze: catwalks, conduits, halls, tubes, decks, he knows every possible access aboard the ship that's supposed to be his home and... he can run forever. Defeat the locators in the central computer and the tricorders, feed himself from storage bays and hydroponic chambers, become a fugitive on his own haunted ship. He starts to laugh at the thought of his entire crew frustrated by the clever ghost of James T. Kirk....

He's still lying on his back, cracking up helplessly, clutching a railing on either side in each hand, when the person below finally calls up to him: soft words, but loud voice, trying to be heard across the intervening distance.

"Jim? Jim — come on. Come on down. She's a ship. Nowhere to run on her, not for long."

The laughter dies. Bones' weary sigh carries through the quiet bay, and there's a long pause, then Jim hears the ringing clunk of hands and shoes on metal. The urge to run redoubles.

"_Bones_." He means to say it loudly, tell him to stop. It comes out as a whisper instead, and Bones can't hear him over the sound of his own low mutters. He doesn't seem aware of how the sound of his voice and his harsh breathing carries over the faint hum of power in the pylons.

"If you fall, you stupid ass, I'm going to drag you back to Sickbay, mend you, and then kick you into next week. And if _I_ fall..." The threat fades into the irritated rumble of Bones talking to himself.

Gruff and frustrated is familiar, isn't possessive, isn't _amused_, but Jim still doesn't want him any nearer. He lets go with one hand, pulls himself over onto his side, his knees. He fights vertigo, crawls farther away from the opening above the ladder. When Bones emerges, Jim is five meters off, his back braced against the nearest vertical stanchion, trying to shake off the insane wish that he had a phaser in his hand. This is _Bones_ he's looking at, sitting there red-faced and harmless, hands resting heavily on his knees and feet still dangling through the hole. Jim still feels naked, defenseless.

"Not comin' any closer," Bones finally says, a little breathless. "Just wasn't goin' to try an' talk to you from down there."

"_Leave me alone_."

"We've tried that. Doesn't seem to be workin' so well." His fingers flutter briefly toward the tricorder on his hip, but then fold against his thigh; Jim's sure he can learn all he needs to from his careful gaze on Jim's face. "Give you all the space in the world and time, Jim, but you came to _me_ before you bolted. You came looking for something."

"Can't." He digs a heel into the grating. "Sleep. Function."

"We can help with that," he says, his words soft and smooth, velvet over titanium. "Getting some sleep will help you function."

"Unfit." His voice cracks.

"So we take you off-duty until you've rested," Bones soothes, "and eaten a proper meal. It's hard to think when your blood sugar's low."

"_Bones_."

"What?"

"One-oh-four unfit." _Starfleet Order 104...ranking officer medically or psychologically unfit for command...clear evidence, such as an act of attempted suicide..._

Bones stares at him, brows contracting, jaw hardening.

"Dammit, Jim." His breath snorts in, a failed effort at restraint. "You're _not_ suicidal. You haven't had a break with reality. You're riding the ragged edge because you've barely slept or eaten and you're not goddamn _talking_ to anyone, but you're holding onto that railing for dear life and you came to me for _help_ and you goddamn _want_ to function, so don't give me this _unfit_ bullshit."

The fretful tension in Jim buckles, and he sags back, confusion bubbling around him. Bones shouldn't be scolding him. But somehow it's just what he needs to hear.

"Unfit," Bones sputters, "do you really think I'd haul myself up here for you if I thought you were _unfit_? Send Spock up after you if I thought so — _he_ has the strength to lug your ungrateful ass back down again."

"I'm...I don't know what I am, Bones." He stares back into Bones' familiar glower. "Out of control."

"You're hurting, Jim, and you don't know what to do with that. You never have, not in all the time I've known you." He scratches at one eyebrow, thinking. "Well, that's not entirely true. Usually, you come have a drink with me and talk about everything but the issue at hand."

"That's the whole problem — I usually go to _you_ when something's wrong."

"And you don't trust me." Bones shakes his head wearily, cutting off Jim's protest. "You don't. Hell, I'm not sure _I_ trust me — I saw what he did. So we're both wonderin' if somewhere deep down I could be like the man who hurt you. But I'm not the only other person on this ship, Jim. There must be someone else here you trust."

"Not — not the same way. Spock, maybe....but he's probably confused as hell just by what's going on _outside_ my head. Everyone else is under my command, one way or another, it doesn't feel..." He trails off, recognizing that he has been, is being, stupid about this. He rubs the back of his neck hard. "I kept thinking, a little more time, I'd have a handle on it, I wouldn't need..."

Bones' lips tighten. "Except you do. People don't — you don't have to face this alone. Not with friends around, not with a psych staff that's trained to help. You're used to that big brain of yours being able to solve everything, and I'm sure you've given it a damn good go, but experience and centuries of research tell me you can't always _think_ your way back to the way things used to be."

Jim sighs, shaky and tired. "Isn't that what I'd be trying to do anyway, by talking it out? Confessing every miserable detail to someone I have to look in the eye for the next four years?"

"Give your staff — and mine — a little credit, Jim." The angry edge is back in his voice. "They're professionals, and if you'd think about it for half a goddamn second, you'd know you're certainly not the only one on the ship who's been raped."

Jim's teeth clamp together hard; not a word he's ready to hear or use yet. Though maybe that just proves Bones' point.

Bones studies Jim's face, hard-checked temper and softer commiseration warring for control of his lips and eyebrows. His mouth puckers once, twice, with unspoken words, then his eyes flutter downward. He's forgotten how high up they are and his face goes ashen, hands tightening on the grate before he looks back up at Jim.

"You're right about one thing. You're in no condition to be making decisions about much of anything until you get some food and some sleep. And you're not going to find either up here. So can we please get down? _Captain_?"

Jim closes his eyes; feels pins and needles in his feet and calves, the chill reality of the stanchion holding up his weight. Bones is right. Climbing down, following his good advice, it's the only way for this to end, unless he really is out of his mind. And he doesn't feel it anymore, the out-of-control panic that brought back the smell of gasoline and Iowa dust.

He doesn't feel anything now except crushing exhaustion. Opening his eyes is an effort. Bones has stopped talking, watches him worriedly.

Jim snorts, sudden and soft.

"Something's funny?" Bones asks.

"Just wondered what would be worse for you — climbing down all those ladders, or having us beamed directly to Sickbay."

Bones pales even more, glances down with an all-too-familiar grimace. "Dealer's choice."

Jim fumbles at his belt for his comm, then shakes his head at himself. He exhales, summoning up energy, then pulls himself to his feet and makes his way to the end of the catwalk where there's a wall-mounted communicator. Bones pulls himself to his feet at last, but remains near the top of the ladder, gripping the railings hard.

"Kirk to Mister Scott."

A muffled rustling. "Aye, sir."

"Up for a little intra-ship beaming?"

"Oh, aye!" The engineer's voice goes from groggy with sleep to alert and chipper, but then this is something he's been wanting more opportunities to try.

"Two from the upper shuttle deck to the CMO's office, please."

"Soon as I'm out of me jammies and in the transporter room, Cap'n."

"I'd trust no one else with this, Scotty." Which is true enough, as far as it goes; just like he knew he could trust Scott and Spock to be discreet about his little universe hop. He does trust his crew, and his senior staff. Just not with everything.

"Aye sir."

He looks back at Bones, _willing_ himself to see the one friend he does trust with everything. They hold each other's gaze until the beam takes them.

"Lights!" Bones snaps the moment they materialize in his dark office.

That's almost funny. At least, Jim thinks as obedient lights flood the safety of the familiar room, he can't imagine that other McCoy being disconcerted by beaming into a dark room. Maybe it's getting easier to tell them apart, or maybe he's just too tired to be afraid anymore. He puts a hand out to steady himself on the desk.

"Let's get you to your bed, Jim. We'll help you sleep."

He looks down. "Plenty of beds here. Do — do you have something that doesn't come in a hypo?"

A pregnant hesitation; Bones' sigh is almost inaudible. "I can put together a capsule for you, or we could just let Nurse Chapel wield the hypo."

Jim negates the last suggestion with a shake of his head. "Can you keep me out? Down deep? Where I won't dream?"

"I can't keep you from dreaming _and_ get you the rest you need," he answers tartly, as if Jim should know this. He probably should. "And unless you _want_ to start hallucinating, you really don't want me to try. But I can keep you deep enough they won't wake you, and I can make sure you won't remember any nightmares you do have."

He nods his gratitude. Bones McCoy, slayer of dreams.

Without coming close enough to touch, Bones escorts him to the private room that serves variously as Sickbay's VIP, quarantine or altered atmosphere chamber. Once Jim settles on the bed, Bones vanishes for a few minutes, then wordlessly brings Jim a cup and a pair of pills, watches him swallow them, and stays nearby until the ship fades into darkness.

~~~

Jim rises gradually, through layers of tarry black sleep, to reach a dim reality he's not sure he can call consciousness.

He doesn't know how his unfocused senses identify the room as Sickbay, even before he's fully awake: maybe the texture of the bed, the almost-absence of smells, the faint hum of the monitors even when the symphony of vital signs has been muted but for the soft rhythmic throbbing of his heartbeat. He slits his gritty eyes open but the lights are dimmed; the comfortable familiarity of this moment swims with vague memories of the shuttle hanger and the hard run before it.

He hears someone shift in a chair, the soft click of a padd being put down on a metallic surface.

"He called me McCoy." The words are hard, irritated; but it's Bones' dark _I am such a fucking idiot_ tone. "Most of the time I wonder if you even remember my given name."

Bones' rough voice is more reassuring than not, in this twilight. Easier to let his eyes fall closed again than to struggle to open them, but he listens for more.

"And since _that_ didn't tell me, you'd think his weird blink when I called him _Jim_ might have fired up my sluggish brain." He snorts. "Or the fact that he was on about Spock bein' up to something, before he decided I must be in on it, too."

Jim clears his throat shallowly, rolls away from Bones, onto his side where he can get properly comfortable. "Spock is..._always_ up to something."

"That he is," Bones says, then pauses. "He's kickin' himself too, for not catchin' on right away. Both times, actually."

"A little humility...."

"...good for the soul, I know." A blanket drapes over his body. The air temperature's fine, but Jim's fingers curl around the edges and pull it close anyway. It's warm and lumpy and soft and ragged all at once, and it's _peace_ and _laughter_ and _safety_...it's the hand-knitted blanket Bones used to keep on his bed at the Academy. Bones tugs it a little higher over his shoulder, before he steps away again.

"And it's not that any one of our souls can't use a little. But I know how he feels."

Jim hears rusty layers of self-recrimination and regret. Distantly, he feels sorry for Bones; knows his own emotions are still numb and hazy even though his mental gears are spinning more smoothly now, finds words spilling from his mouth that he hadn't even wanted to _think_ before.

"Fooled everyone over there, too — I think even that other McCoy was unsure, when he first confronted me..." Jim exhales.

"Thinking on your feet is one of the things that makes you a good captain, Jim." Bones echoes his sigh. "But I'm betting he had a few more physical markers to go on than I did."

"Not with...the uniform on." Wakeful warmth is starting to simmer through the thickness of the drug in his veins.

Bones shifts, and growls something that sounds suspiciously like "Mirror fucking mirror," and then changes the subject with his usual adroit grace. "Are you awake enough to eat something?"

"Not h—" he starts to say, days of low-level nausea still tightening his throat.

"Didn't ask if you were _hungry_, infant."

A rumble of wheels, a soft clank — and whatever notion Jim may have had about not wanting food disintegrates in the wave of savory, salty aromas that rolls over him. His hunger roars up into something that must be fed _now_. Even the lingering reluctance to open his eyes is forgotten; he lifts and twists his head to see what's on the wheeled tray.

"Bacon and eggs, hash browns, toast, and real coffee," Bones says, pushing it over the bed. "And Chapel would be horrified."

"_I'm_ horrified. I'm salivating. But I'm horrified." Jim pushes himself up to a sitting position without looking up at Bones, fighting the film of sluggish aches that cling to him. A small reasonable part of his mind tells him he shouldn't risk getting grease on the one-of-a-kind blanket, but one set of fingers clutches it close around him as the other wipes the grit off his eyelashes. "You're _sure_ you're really my Bones?"

With his eyes pinned on the heap of old-fashioned Iowa goodness on the tray, he misses whatever expression goes with Bones' uneasy grunt.

"I'll nag you later about eating something green once in a while. Whether my doin' so will make you feel better or not."

"It — it would, actually." Jim concentrates on the words, rather than the forkful of egg and potato going into his mouth, hoping the nausea will fall by the wayside along with his manners. He crams a second bite in alongside the first, overflowing his mouth with homey flavors, his mind with layered memories.

"You going to do what I tell you, for a change?" Jim can tell, just by the sound of his voice, that Bones' eyebrow is cranking up to its full elevation.

He washes the food down with a swig of coffee from the heavy mug — still piping hot, perfectly bitter-rich, black with two sugars. Bones never forgets.

"I don't know. I think that might upset you."

"Pretty much."

Another knot comes undone in Jim's chest. He takes two quick bites of bacon before digging his fork back into the rest of his meal. It's not possible that they're talking so lightly, only hours — a day, maybe? — after Jim was clinging to a catwalk for dear life. The drugs might be helping, dulling the edge of the emotions he's been running from, but he can't explain where the banter is coming from; why it seems to be part of that deep, non-verbal well fed by the taste of eggs scrambled by hand with real salt, or the feel of soft yarn against his skin. Maybe the tarnish on their friendship is no deeper than the scar on his skin after all.

He has to know, but it takes another long pull of coffee before he can look up into his friend's face at last. Bones has swapped out the blue shirt for rumpled scrubs and rumpled hair that are decidedly nonthreatening, and it looks like he offered a fair swap for Jim's restful sleep: dark circles shadow soft hazel eyes that are more than a little bloodshot. But he watches Jim devour his breakfast with wry patience, a hidden smile in the way his lips pull together. His eyes flick up to check the monitors above Jim's head.

"Feeling better?"

"Less crazy...."

Bones shakes his head and his lips purse but whatever it is he manages to swallow it back.

"I know, I know. I should have come down here sooner." He still doesn't want to, doesn't know _how_ to have this conversation.

"Not what I was thinking at all," Bones answers, but he doesn't seem particularly inclined to elaborate.

"I just...you were right. I just wanted to think my way out of it. _Make_ things normal."

"Nothing wrong with that, except for the part where you stopped following your normal routine."

Jim sighs harshly, feeling another wave of frustrated homesickness for family mornings in Iowa, for the Academy in San Francisco, for freedom and sunshine and moving air.

"Couldn't," he says. "No matter how hard I worked at convincing myself it hadn't happened _here_ — not my friend, not my quarters, not my goddamned ship."

Bones looks up at him sharply, surprise raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes for just a moment. Must have assumed the assault had happened...here? Or in McCoy's room?

"You haven't been back to your quarters at all? In three _days_?"

He shakes his head, embarrassed again by the feeling that he's been stupid. But there's a certain shadowed grimness in his friend's face, and Jim glances in the general direction of Chapel's desk outside, realizing that Bones hasn't had the option of dodging his memories; he's working in the same place where he was attacked.

Bones catches his look and shrugs.

"Might be my routine's a little out of whack, too."

"Mirror fucking mirror?"

"Something like." Bones makes a wry little grimace, still gazing out the doorway towards one of the empty biobeds in the outer medical bay.

"Strangest thing of all is, I think that Kirk was lookin' to me to protect him."

"Pro— and he thought you were that _other_ McCoy?" Jim's fingers twist in gaps in the knitted yarn.

"Apparently. Told me _I_ had to tell him what we were going to do about Spock. And—" but he cuts off, shakes his head. "And I don't think he was sure I wasn't _his_ McCoy until...until he told me I'd given him that scar."

Jim shudders.

"Told him I wasn't in the habit of cutting up my friends, an' that's when he snapped."

"He...McCoy was eager to get his own Captain back too." He looks away. "He was angry."

Bones scowls at a spot on the duranium flooring. "He didn't just want his Captain back, Jim, or his friend. Point of fact, that boy made it very clear they weren't '_friends_.'"

_I've been intimate with James Tiberius Kirk... _

Jim grimaces, draws his knees up, wraps his forearms around them, fingers still clenched in the blanket. "So much for talking all around the issue."

"When've you ever known _me_ to beat ’round the bush?" Bones asks, reaching out with a foot to pull the empty breakfast tray away from the bedside. "’Sides, the assumptions they made about _us_ are part of the trouble."

"So they were lovers. Or something. Fucker and fucked, anyway. A twisted reflection."

_...if the McCoy you know is too pathetic to get his piece of you._

Jim presses his face to his upraised knees, fighting off another moment of frustration. A twisted reflection of _nothing_. That other Kirk and McCoy have something he and Bones don't have, never thought of, and now he'll never know if it's something they would have come to on their own.

"Shattered, more like," Bones says, subdued. "You met a monster, he met a coward, I met a broken child, and McCoy..."

He hesitates, continues uncertainly. "McCoy probably saw what his Kirk could have been."

Jim takes a deep breath, inhaling the dusty woolen smell of the yarn, remembering a hundred late nights sprawled on this blanket in their room, studying or drinking smuggled beer or just talking until they couldn't talk anymore.

"Did you want to fix him, Bones?"

And Bones, _his_ Bones, who is a healer through and through doesn't pause or try to lie to him.

"Of course I did. But he didn't want fixing. He wanted to go _home_."

All at once, Jim knows that it's not Earth he's missing. Every bit of strength and comfort he longs for is right here in front of him.

"Yeah..." Jim looks up into Bones' eyes. "Yeah, me too."

**Author's Note:**

> _[Torch](http://archiveofourown.org/works/62914)_ is a prequel set in the same universe, detailing how Mirror!Kirk and Mirror!McCoy met.


End file.
